One day Pericles received a sealed missive delivered by a cloaked and hooded man who put the letter into the hand of one of Pericles’ scribes then fled swiftly into the crowds of the Agora. The scribe said with indulgence, “Lord, the vagabond was very elusive and had a voice of import. Doubtless he wishes alms, or this missive contains a denunciation against you.”
Pericles smiled and opened the letter. It was written in a peculiar hand, hardly legible, but the wording was that of a cultured man. “If the noble Pericles would like news of those who instigated the attack upon his son, Paralus, he will come at midnight tonight to a certain tavern which will be closed and locked but which, upon five knocks, repeated three times with a short interval between, will be opened to him. He may bring guards, if he so desires, but he must not permit them to cross the threshold of the tavern. He must enter alone. He will find it silent and deserted with but one candle burning on a central table. As he is an honorable man, and after perceiving a letter addressed to him on that table, he will leave a purse of gold, as promised, in the place of the letter.” The tavern was named; it was situated near the sea in a desolate and notorious section where few dared to venture except criminals.
Pericles, trembling inwardly, read and reread the missive. Was it a plot to lead him to his own death? Was it a snare to rob him of money? Was it fraudulent? A criminal could give a few names. Would they be, in truth, names of those who had paid for the attack on his son, in order to strike at his most vulnerable spot? He studied the letter over and over, gnawing his lip, rubbing his brow. He had an impulse to destroy the letter. The next moment he again read it. He had nothing to lose but a sum of money. On the other hand he had much to gain. He would tell his soldiers to surround the tavern so that if he were injured they could capture the criminals at once. There would be no escape for the traitor or the thief. Too, if Daedalus was named he would know that the message was mere trickery. Malice had done worse than to name an innocent man.
Then he had another thought. He sent for his most trusted officer, a brave young man whose courage and honor he had tested many times. His name was Iphis, and he was a distinguished soldier, short and massive, with glittering brown eyes and a square face under his helmet. Because of his small but powerful legs he waddled and planted his feet heavily, yet he could move like the darting of a sword.
He saluted Pericles and stood before him, waiting. Pericles gazed at him thoughtfully. Then he said, “My dear Iphis, you know of the reward I have offered for the names of the assassin who attacked my son, Paralus.”
“Yes, noble Pericles.”
Pericles held out the letter to Iphis who took it and read it. The young man’s face became as still and carved and hard as stone. He stood in silence for several moments then carefully placed the letter on the table before Pericles and stared down at it.
“Well?” said Pericles at last.
“Lord, it may be an ambush. You cannot go.” He looked directly into Pericles’ eyes. “I will go. I am not of your height, but I will wear a cloak with a hood and be seated on your horse, surrounded by my men, also on horseback. I will obey the instructions in that letter.”
Pericles placed a finger against his lips and looked down at the letter. Iphis said sternly, “You are too important to Athens, lord, and you are Head of State, and the people trust you. To go as directed, yourself, would jeopardize not only your person but Athens as well. It may be that this letter is sincere and the rascal seeking money. We dare not miss the opportunity, however suspicious.”
Pericles was always frank with his soldiers and so they trusted him without question. He could be most severe and then most kind. He said, “I hoped you would suggest this, Iphis, but I would not have suggested it myself. You may be in grave danger of death by going in my place. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, noble Pericles. But I will be armed, and will surround the tavern with my men, and I am a notable swordsman.” His complexion was browned with the sun and had the texture and folds of leather for all his youth, and his eyes were clear and penetrating as he gazed at Pericles. He had an aura of resolution. He added, “I have no wife, no children, no kin. I have nothing to lose, but you have our country and your family. Who am I compared with you?”
Pericles stood then and embraced him, much moved. He withdrew a flashing ring from his finger and said, “This ring is famous in Athens and I never am seen without it. When you ride at midnight, let it be conspicuous, so that it will deceive any watcher. Go to my house at once; you will be seen emerging on horseback at midnight, through my gates. I, myself, will go to my house within the hour, but will leave for the house of Helena, the physician, so that even my most trusted slaves will believe I am with her.”
He added, “Do not return to my house when you have procured the promised letter. Seek me in the house of Helena, where I will be waiting.”
Iphis saluted. “What shall I tell the overseer of your hall, sir?”
‘Tell him you have a message which you must deliver to me, and to me alone. Then, at midnight, with your soldiers, leave in yawning impatience and say that you will return at dawn.”
When Iphis had left him Pericles pursed his lips and walked up and down his office, shaking his head. Iphis was indeed a notable swordsman, while he, Pericles, had not attended a fencing match for nearly two years. Iphis was also young while he was middle-aged. If danger there was, then it would be acute. Iphis was wary, and he had been warned. He would not give up his life easily, and his men would be there to guard him.
Before I had known Aspasia I would not have considered letting another man take my place in peril, he thought. But love makes us weak, even if we are powerful, and cowardly even if we are brave. What are even my sons compared with Aspasia? Iphis was right. I must also think of Athens. Those who trust me would be inconsolable, and my enemies would caper with delight if I were murdered. I stand between them and my country. Too, generals do not expose themselves carelessly to danger, for then their armies would be in disarray.
But he was still troubled.
Helena said to him in her house, “You acted with wisdom. Iphis is intrepid. Athens is greater than you, and she is in your charge. Do not look so uncertain. Come. I have a most delectable dinner for you tonight and I will amuse you until Iphis returns.”
“You are too sensible,” he said, and began to smile.
She regarded him gravely without an answering smile. “When you have the names—and they may be illustrious ones in government—what will you do with them? Have you considered this? You cannot punish those men openly, for then, in return, your enemies will become more united and more vengeful.”
“I have considered,” he replied. “But I will find a way to eliminate them, without open accusations. However, I must be convinced. It is not my way to act with haste, and that you know.”
CHAPTER 7
Shortly after midnight, at the height of Pericles’ apprehensions, Iphis rode up to the house of Helena where every lamp was burning. He bowed deeply to Pericles and bowed slightly to Helena as the friend of Pericles only and not to be considered seriously, though she was a physician of renown.
“Lord,” he said, “it was as written in the letter. I knocked three times, as declared. There was no answer. I pressed against the door and it opened silently. None was there. On a single table, lighted with a candle, was a letter, which I have in my possession. A search of the tavern was futile. There was no sign of life or recent occupancy, though we searched.” He smiled grimly. “It is apparent no one trusted us. I left the purse of gold on the table.”
He gave the letter to Pericles; it was sealed. He opened it and read it with astonishment. There were four names. One was the Eponymous Archon, Philemon, and the second was the Polemarchos Archon, Leander, the third a member of the Supreme Court (called Heliaia), Tithonous, and the fourth, also a member of the Supreme Court and the Boule, Polites.
These four men had appeared to be his kindest and most devoted friends, serious,
bearded and thoughtful. Philemon, Leander, Tithonous and Polites! It was incredible; it was impossible. But nothing, he reminded himself, was impossible in this worst of all possible worlds. A man’s enemies were frequently discovered as his friends, his friends, his enemies. He had even expected to see the name of the King Archon, who always greeted him formally and coldly, though with respect. The fact that his name had been omitted, and that of Daedalus, gave credence to the letter. He had anticipated the names of those whom he believed were his overt foes. They were not here.
He had more than expected to see the name of Thucydides, his arch foe. He was not named.
He showed the missive to Helena, who read it carefully. She said, “I believe every word. These men have been in my house. They always expressed their devotion and loyalty to you. This made me suspicious from the beginning. The more a man protests the more he is to be mistrusted.” She added, “The man who wrote this missive was no tyro, no mere vagabond. He knew the truth.”
“I have dossiers on them all,” said Pericles, but his heart was weighted. “I will study them tomorrow. It was only yesterday that Polites came to my house to speak with Paralus and bring him gifts of sympathy. As for the others, they surrounded me, weeping, and vowed that the dastardly assassin must be brought to justice. They pleaded with me to allow them their assistance.”
“The more reason for you to suspect them, Pericles,” said Helena.
“But what if the writer had a grudge against them and wished revenge?”
“You must study their dossiers,” said Helena. “You may find truth there. If I remember, they are easy and elegant men, with sincere faces, and airs of integrity. Such should be doubted and watched.”
Pericles was very perturbed. He stared at the letter and said, “I trust your judgment, but not always. I have known these men in my youth, in my childhood and early manhood.”
“So,” said Helena, “they are envious of you. They saw your rise and your popularity. They ask themselves, ‘Why is he Head of State and not I? Was he more distinguished than I at our academe? Was he praised more by our teacher than I? Was he more industrious at learning, and did he receive prizes, as I received them? Is his house more notable? Is he richer? No! Therefore, why is he Head of State? Has he bribed voters and politicians? Has he poured out treasure to be elected, when I am more justified? Doubtless. Therefore, he bought office which I, as an honest man, would not have deigned to do. I am virtuous. He is heinous. He deserves punishment.’”
“They were my comrades in arms,” said Pericles, and knew fresh grief.
“Hah!” said Helena, with a cynical face. “So, they believe themselves to be at least your equal. Did you not defecate and urinate with them and exchange lewd camp jests and sleep among them? Who are you, then, to be loftier? That is their reasoning. I have discovered that when a man is accessible and amiable to his companions he is denigrated in their estimation. He is not only on a level with them but possibly inferior. He is not to rise above them; that is unpardonable. If they guess inherent superiority they are sleepless in their hatred.”
Pericles was silent. He said to himself, Is a woman wiser than a man? She has what Socrates has said—an innate sensibility and intuition, the gods’ gifts to women! No wonder we men fear them! They are all Sibyls. Zeus hides himself in his amorous adventures, but Hera discovers them all. How? I do not know. He looked at Helena, who was gazing at him with her large blue eyes and a tender smile, as a woman gazes at a child. He touched her shoulder and said, “I will consider what you have told me. I fear you are correct.” He thought of his beloved Aspasia, who read his speeches before they were delivered, and who censored them, adding emphasis here, reducing emphasis there.
He said to Helena now, “I hate no man but an evil and stupid one. How, then, could these men be my enemies? Your explanation wounds my heart, my wise one.”
“Think on your wounds,” she replied. “They are not only valid; they bleed.”
The wounds we receive in mere living! thought Pericles. The wounds we do not invite but which are inflicted on us—by men, our brothers. No wonder that Justice was the last goddess to leave this world, and has not yet returned. She may never return. The terrible offense to other men is to show them that the superior is not of them, that he has other impulses and other goals. We must all be sweet and democratic and pretend that we are only animals among other animals. If we do that, to God, who gave us gifts, we insult Him. If we do not do that, we offend our neighbor. Better it is to serve God than man, though that is perilous, and our brothers will destroy us. My brother—my enemy. Never my friend. Only my enemy.
The next day he summoned the King Archon to meet him in his offices. The King Archon came with his retinue, elderly, composed and as alert as the old bird he resembled. Pericles received him with ceremony and seated him and ordered refreshments. The King Archon knew this was a grave occasion, and waited patiently, looking at Pericles thoughtfully and with an expression that told nothing. In his turn Pericles studied the old man, for whom he had small respect as he had small respect for all other members of his government. But now he saw that the King Archon had a kingly aspect, and that it was possible he was a man of verity. How unique it is, thought Pericles, to discover a man of probity in any government!
He lifted a sheaf of papers on the table between them. He then gazed at the King Archon with his pale eyes that could take on a baleful look.
“My son, Paralus, was wounded almost to the death by an assassin, or assassins,” he said to the King Archon. “But this you know. I have four names here, which are alleged to be those of the men who bribed criminals to kill my son. I also have their dossiers.”
The King Archon inclined his head. “Yes,” he said. “I have heard of your dossiers, Pericles, son of Xanthippus.” He paused. “You would not have called me here if you did not trust me.”
Pericles dropped his eyes. “I trust no man absolutely, not even myself. But I trust you as much as I can, which, I assure you,” and he smiled faintly, “is not in extraordinary measure.”
The King Archon smiled a little and again inclined his head. He drank some wine and ate a ripe fig or two.
Pericles gave him the missive Iphis had brought to him. The King Archon read it. He began to frown, and his bearded cheeks turned sallow with shock. At last he lifted his eyes and looked in aghast but quiet silence at Pericles.
“You do not expostulate,” said Pericles.
The King Archon shook his head. “I can believe anything of mankind,” he said. ‘Tell me. What do your dossiers show?”
“The Archon, Philemon: He is your cousin’s husband. A few years ago he was accused of bribing the charioteers of Athens in the Olympic Games. He had much invested. Our charioteers lost to Sparta. Though accused, he was never brought to trial, because of your high position, and the name of his house. The news was quietly suppressed. You will observe that the charioteers confessed, under holy oath. You will see that I have corroboration.”
He waited for a comment but the King Archon made none. “Ah,” said Pericles, “then you did not know.” The King Archon tried to speak but could not and Pericles looked at him in sympathy. “After all, it is considered a terrible crime to bribe anyone in the Great Games.”
The King Archon said nothing. Pericles sighed and continued.
“The Polemarchos Archon, Leander. He is in charge of metics, foreigners. For a large fee he had documents forged to show that many Ionians, not to speak of Persians, had their names inscribed in our public records as Athenians born in Athens. He did this because he had to return his wife’s dowry, and he had spent her money in unwise investments, which had all melted away like butter under the sun. It is curious,” said Pericles, “but he has been most stringent in his attacks on foreigners who were poor and desired only to come to Athens to work and practice their arts and live virtuously. Many of them, poor good men, were forced to leave our city, and lost all they had, which was very little in the very beginning. That was
to assure his fellow Athenians that he held our city to be inviolate and not to be polluted by aliens.”
The King Archon retained his composure but his eyes flickered with pain. Pericles looked at the papers in his hands and said, “Tithonous, a respected member of the Heliaia, the Supreme Court, from which there is no appeal. He has persuaded many of his innocent fellow judges—by his vote and oratory—that various dangerous criminals were innocent, if they came of rich families or had political influence. He would weep over their wrongs, or say that they were young and heedless and meant no overt transgressions. He castigated fathers for the plight of their sons. The criminals went free. He received large sums from grateful parents for this.”
The King Archon closed his eyes as if he could not endure listening, but must.
Pericles said, still quietly, “Another member of the Supreme Court, Polites. His wife, of whom he had tired, died under mysterious circumstances. He is rich and powerful. You will observe the names of the men who swore that he was with them far away when she was stabbed to death in her chamber. They did that, not out of venality, but because it was unthinkable to them that a man of such a blameless character and sober mien could have arranged the murder of his wife. But, you will observe, I have received letters from the murderers, themselves, from their sanctuary in Syria. Even murderers, it would seem, have consciences, occasionally. Or, perhaps, they had received less money than they expected. Their letters are beyond doubt. They described the actual murder as only participants could do, for many of the vile facts were unknown except to officers of our police.”
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